Just like old times
by Fantony
Summary: "You give me a black look and empty your glass in one draught. A two thousand pounds bottle of Essence de Courvoisier. I doubt you have taken the time to appreciate the delicate notes of apricot and hawthorn flower. What a waste." Mycroft is always there for Sherlock. Always. Follow their relationship during Season 3 through the eyes of Mycroft.


The title comes from Sherlock and Mycroft's exchange in The sign of three.

**Note:** Through this story, I just want to show how much Mycroft cares about Sherlock. I like to think that despite their disagreements and their perpetual squabbles, the brothers have a symbiotic relationship. It's up to you to read this fanfic as a simple evidence of brotherly love or as a very platonic Holmescest. Possible hints of Johnlock later. Not sure yet.

Also note that the story is told by Mycroft. Therefore, the text is written in the first person but you will notice that Mycroft delivers his thoughts as if he was talking to Sherlock (hence the 'You') because even in his mind, he always 'talks' to Sherlock.

_**Please keep in mind that I'm French, hence the English mistakes ! ;)** _

* * *

><p><span><strong>JUST LIKE OLD TIMES<strong>

**CHAPTER 1 – APRICOT AND HAWTHORN FLOWER. **

_The scene takes place at Mycroft's, where Sherlock is staying after his return from Eastern Europe, on the night of Sherlock and John's reunion. Mycroft is sitting in his chair by the fire, waiting for Sherlock to come back._

I can hear your steps getting closer and a whiff of tobacco runs through my nostrils, betraying your resort to nicotine on your way back home. Your reunion with that dear old doctor hasn't been a great success, then. Not exactly a surprise.

"Didn't I tell you you wouldn't be welcome?" I tease you, not even turning around.

Without a word, you take the glass of brandy that I hold out to you over my shoulder – definitely not a good sign – and sit in the chair facing me. The flames which are dancing endlessly in the fireplace reflect on your face and I realise I have somewhat underestimated how much the doctor missed the war. Split lip, marks of strangulation, dried blood showing a violent blow to the nose. He sure didn't pull his punches. Like a child who would have just had his most precious toy broken, I feel the anger boiling up inside me and I vow a sudden hatred to John Watson, close to the hatred I fostered towards all those reckless idiots who ventured to touch a single hair on your head, and God knows how many have at least tried!

The fact that you have genuinely considered that I enjoyed your Serbian torture is risible. I would have strangled your persecutor with my own hands if I could have, but it would have compromised the success of the plan, and you know how much I hate getting my hands dirty. Of course, I ensured that he was taken care of once we were out of reach. Serbian jailers are not said to be very easy-going.

"It would have been preferable to wait a little longer before you broach the subject of his moustache," I say in a deliberately detached tone.

"Shut up, Mycroft."

"What did you expect, Sherlock? That he was going to throw himself into you?"

You give me a black look and empty your glass in one draught. A two thousand pounds bottle of Essence de Courvoisier. I doubt you have taken the time to appreciate the delicate notes of apricot and hawthorn flower. What a waste.

So you really believed John would welcome you with open arms and that things would go back to the way they used to be? Your naivety inspires me a myriad of caustic comments but the expression on your face incites me to restrain them. I know that expression. It is exactly the same that you displayed on that very same chair, the night of your little act two years ago. An expression that reminds me, if ever needed, O how fragile you are, brother mine. Much more than anyone can imagine. Much more than you are even aware of.

I assume this is one of those moments where a _normal_ person would embrace you and tell you everything is going to be alright, but _normal_ is hardly a word people use when they talk about us, is it?

"Give him some time, Sherlock," I simply say.

"How much time?"

I sigh. You have never distinguished yourself for your patience.

"He saw you jump off a building. He saw you bathe in what he believed to be your own blood. He buried you. He visited your grave almost every week. He spent two years mourning you."

"Precisely. Then he should be happy to see me."

I can't help but smile. I have always been amused – amused and alarmed I must admit – by that perpetual paradox between your genius mind and your ignorance of human nature. As a kid, you already saw the world with the eyes of an adult, but you have always seen the heart and its mysteries with the eyes of a child. Therefore, you only see in my attitude towards you a will of interference and a superiority complex. You are blind to my true motivations. Somehow, I have to confess that it suits me. You are my unique weakness, and if you ever knew how important you are to me, no doubt you would use that power against me.

"I told him I was sorry," you mutter.

I raise an eyebrow at those words. If remorse has been eating me up inside for years, little by little, it is only a vague and distant concept to you. Of course, you know how it is generally expressed, but expressing it genuinely yourself? That's a first. You really care for your doctor.

"And Mary said she'd talk him round," you add and out of the corner of my eye, I watch you pour yourself another glass of brandy.

Mary. Yes... Mary Elizabeth Morstan. Her real name still escapes the secret services. I have put my best individuals on the case though, but their efficiency is as dreadful as ever. I already have my thoughts on the matter, but you know how much I am fond of legwork... The terrorist attack that is brewing in the heart of London is not the only reason that encouraged me to bring you home, Sherlock.

I wonder what you have deduced about her. How clearly have you seen her little game? If Irene Adler imposed herself as a redoubtable enemy, she does not hold a candle to that woman. The future Mrs Watson (because if we take a moment to consider John's salary, it is quite obvious that he could only have one idea in mind when he took her to a restaurant whose bill is a three numbers one at best) keeps her cards to her chest and erase all traces. Extremely intelligent. Extremely dangerous. There is clear evidence that the war is not the only thing that John Watson misses. If Mary skilfully orchestrated their first meeting, very little effort was necessary to seduce John, and she knew it. She knew that unconsciously, he was in search of adrenaline. She knew that unconsciously, he would be attracted to a woman like her. Like he had been attracted to you. Because John is attracted to danger...

* * *

><p>The fourth glass of brandy gets the better of you and as I kneel beside the toilet bowl to wipe the last traces of vomit away from your mouth with a handkerchief, a look of utter disgust on my face, I bitterly regret to have let you drink that much. If Mummy saw you right now, she would put me through hell.<p>

Walking you to your bedroom is hardly any more thrilling. Leading you to the first floor is an achievement in itself, and listening to your nonsensical jeremiads requires the patience of a saint. When I think you will still dare say to anyone who would care to listen that I am the worst brother ever. Your _arch enemy_, as you so like to say. Believe me, Sherlock, the _other one_ would have never cared about you like I do. _(1)_

You let yourself fall onto your bed and I stare in horror at your Yves Saint Laurent shoes covered in mud on the cashmere blanket. With a sigh, I take off your shoes and trousers and I tuck you in while you, ungrateful idiot, complain about my lack of gentleness.

"You'd better sleep now, Sherlock. I've heard enough out of you."

I turn on my heels but you grab my wrist.

"Sing me a lullaby!"

I frown.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me perfectly well, Mycroft."

I'm afraid I did, indeed.

"This is ridiculous. Do I need to remind you of your age, brother dear?"

"Sing me a lullaby or I won't be able to sleep!"

I grit my teeth. I know from experience that you are, alas, appallingly stubborn and that even under the influence of alcohol, you won't let me leave this room as long as I don't give in. Reluctantly, I sit on the edge of the bed and clear my throat, trying to forget the position I hold in the British government.

"Baa Baa Black Sheep, have you any wool?" I start to sing perfunctory.

"Oh, for God's sake, not this one!" You cut me off. "I want _Baby Mine_!"

I freeze. This is the song from _Dumbo_. You loved that movie as a child, probably because you could identify with that pathetic elephant calf that was rejected because of its difference, and you kept asking me to sing that song every night. I... I didn't know... I thought those memories had long been eradicated from your mind palace. I desperately try to ignore the glow of warmth spreading through my whole body.

"I thought you had forgotten."

"Hmm..." You mumble into your pillow. "Sing!"

"Little one, when you play. Pay no heed to what they say," I strike up, surprised to remember the lyrics so easily, "let your eyes sparkle and shine. Never a tear, baby mine. If they knew all about you, they'd end up loving you too. All those same people who scold you, what they'd give just for the right to hold you..."

I am rather glad you are too drunk to notice the tremor in my voice.

I am rather glad it is too dark for you to see the tears threatening to escape my eyes.

Oh Sherlock, you alone can break my shell like that. Instinctively, I run my fingers through your dark curls like I used to do a long time ago. Such a long time ago. You close your eyes almost immediately, and I straighten very slowly, for fear of waking you up.

"Mycroft!" You call me as I was about to walk out the door.

I jump and turn around.

"Yes, what, Sherlock?" I ask, trying to sound exasperated.

"You know, there's something... There's something I've always meant to tell you but never have," your voice is hesitant and my heart skips a beat. Oh no, not this. I am not prepared for such an excess of sentiment. What will I answer you? "I'm really glad I haven't inherited the same nose as yours."

And this is all the gratitude you are capable of showing me... I roll my eyes.

"Yes... Goodnight, Sherlock."

I will never let you touch my Essence de Courvoisier again.

* * *

><p><em>(1) The "other one" refers to the other sibling Mycroft mentions at the end of His last vow.<em>

_Sorry if Mycroft's language sounds too "informal", like I said, English isn't my mother tongue. _

_**Thanks for reading!**__** :)**_

**Published on September.21 2014**


End file.
